As I reached the brick road, the world around me turned quiet. I have sins buried here in this forest. I try to forget but there they are, and I have probably been lying to myself.
When was the last time I looked anyone in the eye? I was not myself today, or any day lately. I went to sleep at 3 a.m., and only because morning was calling me. There it was, though I did not want to answer, instead devouring words because I needed to feel something.
The brick flows into the grey road leading me away, but what does it matter? Direction is arbitrary. There is no velocity without those wretched arrows. I am not headed anywhere and it is hard to convince myself to go anyway.
When did apathy become my friend? When did depression — that bleak, gray, exploding emptiness — make its home in my mind? Sadness is so tangible. It is like an oil spill in my fingers but it does not come from the earth. It comes from still being awake at 3 a.m., lying about not lying to myself anymore.
Let me have this for now, this comfortable madness, and I will pick up again soon. I am just trying not to deceive myself too. What does it matter, any of it? All of it.